


Broken

by ACometAppears



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Brainwashing, Gen, Gore, Medical Horror, Shoulder dislocation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 18:34:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1868097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/ACometAppears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HYDRA's brainwashing included taking away the Winter Soldier's medical knowledge and first aid skills, so that he'd always have to come back to them if he got injured. </p><p>But when his shoulder is dislocated during his fight with Steve Rogers, there's no one left to go back to. He has to go to a hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a headcanon I saw about HYDRA taking away Bucky's first aid knowledge, to make him more dependent on them. I did make this as medically accurate as possible, but forgive me for anything that comes across as inaccurate. Thanks!!

The soldier keeps to the trees wherever possible, to avoid detection. But it’s not hard to hide, given that the highway is full of cars trying to escape the city. People are grabbing whatever they have, whatever they value most, and fleeing. They think there’s been a terrorist attack. 

They’re not completely wrong. 

He follows the signs for the hospital. _Hospital_ – больница. A place of healing. He is damaged. He requires repairing. They will know what to do.

No one else is around to help him anymore – none of his HYDRA handlers. It took him a little while to realise that, but he now knows it. They’re all either dead, or captured. He keeps forgetting that. He keeps waiting for orders that will never come. 

But his communications device is dead. It’s waterproof, and it survived the fall, but it spews out static and silence at regular intervals. No voices are forthcoming. There’s no one to tell him to stand down.  
There’s no one to heal him, and he can’t heal himself. He feels as if he should know what’s wrong with him, but he draws a blank, when he even considers it.

He doesn’t realise that his lack of medical knowledge is part of HYDRA’s machinations: they burned it out of him, erasing essential training and knowledge of how to take care of himself when injured, in order to make him more dependent on them. They had to make sure he would always come back to them, to repair him, and help stop the pain.

It worked. He came back to them, every time but once. He doesn’t even remember that time: they bleached his mind of the occasion, but were sure to preserve his knowledge of the severity of the punishment that would come as a result of further escape attempts.

But that won’t happen, this time. He feels on edge, expecting punishment; expecting treatment, no matter how painful. They operated on his arm without anaesthetic, dragging him through the snow and hacking it off with a saw, after all – they were either hateful or apathetic towards him, to allow him to suffer in that way.

For failing his mission like he just did, they’d surely hurt him, or freeze him again, as punishment. He’s ruined them, with his failure. The knowledge of that makes him feel sick, despite the fact that he’s spitefully glad, now, that they didn’t succeed. Even knowing what Captain Rogers revealed to him about himself, and helped him remember, he feels apprehensive. He’s waiting for HYDRA to bring him in and torture him.

But they’re not around, now. He thinks he’s supposed to be happy about that – feel _free_. That’s probably what Captain Rogers would want him to feel. But he’s not here, right now. No one is. And the soldier is in pain, and confused, and he needs someone to make it all stop.

So he finds the hospital. 

The place is a mess: it’s a mass of raised voices, and gravely injured people, crushed and hit and scraped by rubble and shrapnel. He’s good at not being noticed, and hiding in the shadows – but that skill isn’t overly necessary, as in all the commotion, he slips into a thankfully unoccupied room undetected. He shuts the blinds, and casts his gaze around. 

There’s a gurney, and several draws and cabinets full of medical equipment: dressings, and tools, and bandages. 

It strikes him that he has no idea what he should do, now. He stands, his right arm clutched to his side, hanging limp and useless, and stares blankly at the room. He thought there would be people here, to help him; to sit him down, and work on his body, while he sat and stared into nothing.

He doesn’t think his mind will ever be blank like that again: not after the horrors, hidden just under the surface, that reuniting with Captain Rogers revealed to him with brutal clarity.

He’d still thought for a moment, though, that he could just turn up and be treated, without question. He’d forgotten, yet again, that everyone is gone. None of his handlers are there for him. He can’t just sit back, and let them work on him. He won’t forget again. 

He doesn’t even know what’s wrong with him. He looks down at his flesh arm, trying to understand what’s wrong: every little movement, every time he manipulates it at all, causes him pain and sickness. His shoulder doesn’t look like it normally does: it’s squarer, and an odd shape. He bites his lip, feeling the area with his left hand. He hisses, as he hits a particularly tender area.

He’s used to pain – a lot of pain, a lot of the time. It doesn’t lessen the sensation he’s feeling now, though. He feels weak, and useless, and sick.

And he doesn’t know how to fix it.

There’s a noise from behind him, and he turns around: his hand is on the knife at his belt in a second, his pained expression quickly schooled, as his eyes seek out a target.

There’s a woman there: she looks tired, and though her blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail, random locks stick out in all directions; she’s so rushed off her feet, she doesn’t even realise the soldier is there for a moment, as she steps into the room, looking for something or other. But when she spots him, she startles:  
“Oh – I didn’t realise this room was taken – are you being seen by-”

She doesn’t get much further: he pulls out his pistol with his left hand, as quick as a flash, and aims it right at her head. He has limited ammunition, after the fight with Captain Rogers, but he has enough to finish her.

She freezes, her expression shocked, as her eyes focus intently on the weapon: she doesn’t move at all, aside from her gaping mouth opening and shutting soundlessly.

He’d like to hold the pistol two-handed, to reduce the effect of the recoil. But his right arm isn’t cooperating. He grimaces in pain, but quickly stifles the expression: he doesn’t know this woman’s intentions, yet.

But her clothes say _doctor_. Врач – a healer. Someone who can help, he hopes.

“Shut the door. Lock it,” He says, cursing himself inwardly for forgetting to lock the room in the first place. He chalks it up to the fact he’s been compromised, recently; his mental state isn’t adequate, at the moment. Perhaps it’s a happy accident, though: after all, his error allowed him to corner someone who can help him.

“Please don’t kill me,” She begs. His expression doesn’t falter, “Please–”  
“Quiet,” He says. She bites her lip: she looks scared, and shocked – just like he expects. He’s seen it in every target he’s ever confronted face-to-face.

He feels guilt, for the first time: both for those previous kills, and for what he’s doing at that moment.

 _Imagine what Steve would say. He risked everything to try and help you to be the man he knew – the honourable man. To see you like this … It would break his heart_ , a judgemental voice in his head tells him. It sounds a lot like Bucky Barnes.

But he’s doing what he needs to, to survive. He’s sure Steve would appreciate that … Wouldn’t he?

He’ll try and make it quick. He’ll try and get out of here, as soon as possible. He spared Captain Rogers – he can spare the doctor, too. If she doesn’t make matters complicated.

She shuts the door, and makes sure he can see that she locks it, too.

He beckons her closer with a nod of his head; she takes one step, sizing him up, and visibly trying to remain calm.

“Repair me,” He tells her. She gulps, and looks him up and down, surveying him for injury.  
“What’s wrong?” She asks. He sees her slip her hand into her pocket, and takes an abrupt step forward.  
“Don’t,” He warns. He knows she has some sort of communications device in her pocket. She breathes harshly, uncomfortable in his presence; with him being slightly closer to her. She removes her hand from her pocket, though.

“… My shoulder,” He answers, staring at her face, unblinking.  
“What happened?” She asks, her face becoming calmer, as her training takes over. He can relate to that. She’s keeping her cool well.

He narrows his eyes at her, though: not because she’s angered him, as she misinterprets – but because he doesn’t know how to describe it, really. He replays the events in his mind: he’s holding onto the data chip, he refuses to let go – _Captain Rogers is pleading with him to drop it, wrenching his arm away from his body, and pulling – then there’s a cracking noise, and something just … Clicks out of place. He screams, roaring in agony, and using it to fuel his fight, and end his mission – which, in the end, he doesn’t do._

_He failed, and he’s injured. He’s worthless, now. Broken._

_But he has to keep fighting. It’s all he knows how to do._

“Something moved out of place,” He says simply, without intonation. He feels stupid, as he says it – childlike, in his ignorance about what happened; what, exactly, he needs to do to fix it.  
“You dislocated it?” She asks, slowly moving to fold her arms across her body: it’s a protective stance; she doesn’t make any sudden movements. _Smart._

He just stares at her, though: he doesn’t know whether to confirm or deny it. He wishes there wasn’t a gaping void, where his medical knowledge should be. He wishes he knew more than how to confirm a kill; when someone definitely won’t survive a hit.

“Fix it,” He commands her. She shakes her head.  
“I can’t – not on my own, I’d need a team to help, and try and figure out-”  
“Fix it,” He repeats, insistently. His voice is almost a growl.

Her mouth shuts; this time, it’s her that narrows her eyes.

“… Fine. Take off your … Jacket,” She instructs him, her eyes roaming over his clothing, momentarily at a loss for how to describe his uniform.

He doesn’t move, his expression steely; his eyes watch her intently.

“Look, if you want me to fix it-” She begins, sounding frustrated.  
“I do,” He interrupts.  
“-well I can’t do that, without seeing your shoulder. Without clothes on. Do you understand me?” She asks, holding her nerve.

He never takes his eyes off her: he considers telling her that he understands – she could have said it in Russian, Spanish, German, French, Italian … He still would have understood. He’s not stupid. He’s just uneducated, in this area.

He wasn’t allowed to keep the knowledge.

He wonders how to do as she says, without letting go of his weapon. He realises he will have to trust her, just a little bit, for a moment. But not that much.

“Over there,” He instructs her bluntly, indicating the side of the exam room furthest from the door. She moves, and so does he; they move in opposite directions, so he’s between her and the exit. Maintaining eye contact, he holsters his weapon, and tells her:  
“Don’t make a noise. I can kill you just as easily with this, as I can with any other weapon,” He says, flexing his metal fingers.

Her eyes are drawn to the prosthetic digits, which are now unobscured by the pistol: she frowns, looking surprised and intrigued, as she sees them. Clearly, she’s never seen anything like it, before. He understands that it is quite advanced, in terms of weaponry. With his lack of medical knowledge, though, he can’t say what a normal prosthetic arm looks like. He’s never seen one.

But from the way Captain Rogers looked his left arm, when he first encountered him on the rooftop after his mission to kill Nick Fury, he knows it’s abnormal. And terrifying.

She nods once. He uses his left hand to unbuckle his uniform: the warm sun part-way dried the material on his way here, after being in the Potomac, but it’s still a little damp. He shrugs the uniform off, ignoring the stabbing sensation in his shoulder, which threatens to make him vomit – it’s not that the pain is getting to him psychologically, because it isn’t – he’s had it worse – his body is just reacting normally.

It’s cold comfort that his reactions, in this situation, confirm to him that he’s human – that he’s not just a machine.

He’s glad he didn’t have the second layer of his uniform to remove, too: that would have caused more jostling of his shoulder, resulting in much more pain. He needs as clear a mind as he can manage, right now, in an unfamiliar location; in a confrontation with an unfamiliar person, whose help and expertise he requires.

He throws the jacket onto the gurney, taking out his gun again with his left hand. He looks up at her, and sees her eyes focussed squarely on the join between his flesh and his prosthesis: it’s an ugly mess of scar tissue and burns, he knows. The way she’s looking at him is similar to the way some of the HYDRA agents he came across less frequently did, during his diagnostic sessions: a mix of horror, and disgust. Professional interest, too, no doubt.

But she schools her expression, visibly shaking herself, and refocussing on his right shoulder. With a practised gaze, she runs her eyes over it, observing the strange shapes beneath his skin, and the abnormal shadowing that the out-of-place head of his right humerus creates on his shoulder.

“Sit up on the gurney,” She tells him. He does so, without hesitation: he finds himself moving, responding to her command, without questioning it. He finds he’s okay with that: the situation feels less strange, and more familiar, if he pretends she’s simply one of his HYDRA handlers; one of the doctors, repairing his left arm, and stitching up his wounds.

He keeps his weapon trained on her at all times: she reaches out, but pauses – she tells him,  
“I need to touch you, now. It might hurt,”

He nods once.

It does, indeed, hurt. She feels the area, her fingers pressing lightly, helping her confirm her initial diagnosis – _it’s dislocated, alright._

He notices sweat pooling on her forehead, as she works: she’s nervous. He can understand that. He also notices how her eyes flick to his face every so often, expecting to see something – outward signs of pain. He won’t show them unless he’s in extreme agony, though. His face is blank, and stony, as he watches her work, his weapon trained on her at all times.

“… I need to relocate the humerus,” She says. He just stares at her, so she continues: “I’m going to need other people to come in here and help me do that, and to perform some tests to see if you have any nerve damage, and make sure you haven’t torn the rotator cuff tendon,”  
“No,” He says. It’s not a negotiation.  
“But-” She protests.  
“No one else,” He asserts.

She licks her lips, her eyes settling on the weapon, as she speaks.

“… Fine. But it’ll take longer, and it’ll hurt more. You could have reduced mobility,” She tells him plainly.

There’s a long pause. The soldier doesn’t even move, let alone make any sign he’s changed his mind. Then he mutters, “Do it,”

She considers, for a long moment, making a break for it. She doubts she’d get very far: this guy is armed, and dangerous. But if she could run away, she could get to safety – and she could provide him with better care. There’s no guarantee she won’t just be hurting him further, here.

She collects her thoughts, and tells him:  
“You’ll need to lie down. I’m going to have to perform a procedure called reduction. I’m going to manipulate your arm, until the bone pops back into place – there’s no guarantee it’ll work, and you might still need surgery,” She tells him.

He gulps: she thinks he’s nervous about the procedure. But inside, he’s actually feeling acute anxiety at the thought of more surgery: usually when he wakes up, he’s been in cryo-sleep for decades, and he’s got a new arm. He doesn’t want to be put under again. He doesn’t want to be frozen again.

It’s not really like sleep, at all. It’s like being trapped, in his own body. He’s not awake, but he’s not completely unaware – it’s more like a coma. A cold, painful, decades-long coma.

She hesitates, watching his eyes glaze over; his breathing is harsher than before, and he looks on the verge of some sort of panic attack.

“… If you’d let me leave, I could get some pain relief for you,”  
“No!” He yells, eyes wide and wild, as he looks sharply back up at her. She’d say he looks more _afraid_ , than threatening, right now, though – not for the first time, she wonders who the hell this guy is, and what happened to him.

She wonders if she’s being missed, yet. But it’s chaos out there: in all probability, no one’s even noticed she’s missing, yet. She could die, in here, and not be found until they need this room, after they’ve triaged everyone in the emergency room.

It could be a long, long time. And, for the time being, the door is locked.

“… No drugs,” The soldier asserts. The doctor huffs out a sigh, trying to take deep breaths.  
“Lie down,” She says. Slowly, he slips down into a lying position, his eyes focussed on her. “This is really, really going to hurt,” She says.

He smirks bitterly at that. Clearly, she doesn’t know how bad the pain he usually experiences is, when he’s surrounded by doctors and pushed back into a reclining position. At least this time, he won’t feel as if there’s a lightning storm crashing inside his skull; won’t feel like his muscles are trying to tear themselves out of his skin; won’t experience spasms that feel as if they’re biting at his limbs, jerking them about against his will, like he’s a rag-doll.

Then the pain begins. It’s unlike anything he can remember feeling, before: it’s different to the pain he experienced during his operation (one of the only memories he’s managed to retain, from decades ago).

But it’s not _completely_ dissimilar.

 _Sergeant Barnes_ , a sinister Swiss voice whispers in his ear, as the doctor works; she breaks a sweat of exertion, pulling on his right limb, as his eyes widen, with a sharp intake of breath. _The procedure has already begun._

She’s not cruel – she’s just doing her job – but _they_ are. HYDRA are cruel.

They used him. They tortured him. They brainwashed him, and set him lose on his best friend, like a rabid dog. They stole away everything that he was – everything good about him, every positive trait, every honourable intention and opinion, and his will to fight for them – and they replaced it with hatred, hot and burning, bubbling just under his skin at all times, until he eventually boiled over.

But he needed them. He couldn’t refuse their help.

He doesn’t register that the pained noises he can hear are his own – he’s not in the room, with the doctor, anymore. He’s in the mountains, falling, and falling, and falling, and then he lands – _Sergeant Barnes - 3-2-5-5-7 – dragged through the snow by his right arm, he’s being pulled along by it, the entire weight of a body yanking at it and pulling, and pulling, and pulling – oh, God, let me die – don’t let me lose this one, too – don’t let them take me again, please, enough –_

Someone’s saying _calm down, you’re okay, you’re safe _, between pants; someone else is whimpering, and grunting.__

__Then there’s a pop: he yells, his muscles spasming – but he manages not to discharge his weapon. His eyes fly open – _he doesn’t remember shutting them_ – and he’s panting, and sweating, and feeling scared and vulnerable. The lights are bright above him, and for a second he thinks he’s back in the Red Room: he sits bolt upright, jumping off the gurney, and backing away towards the door._ _

__His wild eyes fix on the doctor, and he realises she’s talking:  
“You’re okay – this is a safe place, okay, buddy? … No one’s hurting you, here,” She reminds him. He gulps, and listens, trying to breathe evenly as he does so. “… I can get you something for the pain, if you want?” She offers him yet again. He shakes his head vehemently._ _

__He’s so different from the cold calculated person she met just moments ago, when she entered this room. She doesn’t believe he wants to hurt her, anymore: he didn’t try and hurt her, during the procedure, though it clearly hurt him – the pain had a strange effect on him. He began jerking, and grunting, and begging – alternately for his life, and for death._ _

__He kept apologising. She doesn’t know who Steve is, but she hopes he knows this guy is sorry. He said it enough times, during his pain-induced freak-out._ _

__“No,” He declines, less forcefully than before. “No more drugs,”_ _

___They put him to sleep, and it’s for years, and years. No more._ _ _

__“Okay – you, uh … You’ve gotta keep that arm in a splint. Immobilise it,” She tells him. He swallows, looking down at his right arm. He holds it to his side, as he did before – but he does feel some relief, now. It’s still very painful, but it’s nothing he hasn’t learned to ignore._ _

__He licks his lips, watching her carefully, as he holsters his weapon, and picks up his uniform: he slides his left arm into the left sleeve, but when it comes to the right arm, he bites his lip. He flinches as he moves it, and stills to breathe through the pain, for a moment._ _

__It’s nothing compared to the memory that stayed with him, through it all: the one of his arm being ripped off, and a bone saw biting into it, and an amputation without anything to even bite down on._ _

__Yeah, it’s nothing compared to that. But it’s still painful._ _

__He doesn’t realise he’s zoned out, until she’s right up close to him – he flinches, stepping away; she holds her hands up, like she’s approaching a wounded, vicious animal. There’s not much difference._ _

__“Relax. I’m trying to help you,” She says, indicating the right sleeve. Cautiously, and very slowly, he steps closer: he can smell her perfume; the scent of her shampoo, from the morning, in her blonde hair._ _

_Captain Rogers has blonde hair_ , he thinks to himself as a distraction, as she holds the sleeve up. He slides his arm into it, biting down hard on his bottom lip during the manipulation of the limb.  
“… Are you on the run?” She asks cautiously. “Are you in trouble?" 

__His gaze shifts to her face: she’s pointedly not making eye contact with him, helping him shrug the uniform back on. But it’s clear, to him, that she’s stopped viewing him like a threat, as she did before – at least, not as much now. Something changed, when she saw him in pain, during the reduction procedure. She sees him as a patient, now._ _

_Maybe he’s even a victim of abuse_. After being a doctor for several years, it’s easy for her to spot the signs. It would certainly explain the trust issues – if not the arsenal of weapons at his disposal, and the metal prosthesis. Those things suggest _military_. His eyes scream _PTSD_. He’s dangerous – but there’s more to it, than that. She knows whatever’s going on here, she’s way out of her depth – but she can’t run away, out of fear, or cowardice, now. 

__“… Do you need help?” She asks._ _

__He steps away from her: she’s closer to the door, now, but she doesn’t appear to want to make a break for it just yet. He buckles up the uniform as best he can with his metal hand – it’s not perfect, but it’s a start._ _

“How long before I’m better?” He asks simply.  
“You could still need surgery,” She reminds him. He just blinks are her, shifting slightly as he does so, and waiting silently for her to continue.  
“… It’ll take a few weeks of your arm in a splint. And physical therapy,” She tells him. 

__He nods once. He thinks to himself that he’s never taken longer than a few days to heal from _anything_ , before._ _

_The procedure has already begun_ , he hears Zola whisper in his ear again. He shakes his head, shivering. He knows his shoulder will be well again in a few days. He’s got a twisted version of the serum given to Steve Rogers by the SSR flowing through his veins. It makes him different to a human – but whereas Steve is more than the average man, he is _less._

__He’s a murderer, an assassin – and he’s missing part of himself. On the outside, and the inside._ _

__There’s a sudden knock on the door: the soldier’s hand flies to his weapon, and the doctor flinches, her eyes wide; she tenses up, believing once again that he’ll shoot her, spooked by the noise._ _

__But even mentally unstable as he knows he is, right now, he’s got good reflexes: he knows when to shoot, and when not to, too._ _

__“Sarah? Are you still in there? – how long does it take to find your damn stethoscope?” A man’s voice asks from the other side of the door. The doctor freezes for a moment, her eyes on Bucky – then, she calls back,  
“… I don’t think it’s in here,”_ _

__Bucky doesn’t move, or make to silence her. He trusts her not to say anything: she’s too afraid of him, for that … Or maybe she’s trying not to draw attention to him._ _

__He doesn’t really want help, she knows. It looks like he only came here because it was absolutely necessary. He’s probably uninsured, and mixed up in some kind of … Well, she doesn’t know. Something bad, to do with the craziness that went on today._ _

__But he doesn’t want her help, so she won’t force treatment on him. _First, do no harm.__ _

__“Forget it – new arrival just came in – they’re saying it’s Captain America,” The voice says, sounding excited._ _

__Bucky’s breath hitches: his eyes widen, and his nostrils flare, and he’s looking at the door eagerly. They found him._ _

He’s relieved, really – but he also doesn’t want to be here, when Steve is. He can’t see him again. _What if he asks after me? … What if he wants to see me?_

 _I don’t know if I can face him again._

__“I’ll be out in a second – just making one hundred percent sure I didn’t leave anything else in here, while I’m at it,” She lies. Bucky nods, confirming that he approves of the fiction. She relaxes slightly._ _

__“Hurry up, or he’ll arrest before you get there!”_ _

__Bucky starts forward at that: he catches himself, though, trying not to make any sound. The doctor flinches, thinking he’s going to attack her; but when he stops, she realises it was something the man outside the door said that set him off._ _

__They listen to him walk away, for a second._ _

__“He was probably exaggerating,” She says, referring to the man’s comment that Captain America’s heart might stop. She pauses, watching Bucky’s breathing slow a little – but only a little. He’s still on edge._ _

__“… Captain America,” She says, thoughtfully. “You don’t want him to die,” She suggests._ _

__He licks his lips, wondering how best to leave the situation. But she’s still talking._ _

__“I mean, no one really _wants_ him to die, but … Is he the Steve, you were talking about? Steve Rogers?” She asks tentatively. He honestly doesn’t remember calling out for Steve, just moments ago: he wasn’t even really conscious, then. “… What is he, to you?” She asks._ _

__“… I’m leaving. Tell no one I was here. I can find you,” He tells her, his voice low: he’s putting a lot of effort into keeping it even, and emotionless. She shuts her mouth, though she silently observes how upset he is by the fact that Captain America is injured._ _

__“I won’t tell anyone,” She promises, once again fearing for her life. She feels she overstepped the mark, just now. He steps closer to her, and she holds her breath, as he unlocks the door beside them. He stares down at her, his eyes dark and shining; his face thoughtful yet stormy, as he considers her._ _

__She wonders if he’s deciding whether or not to just kill her. In that moment, she prays that he’ll act more like the human she saw just for a few moments, than the cold machine he’s been most of the time._ _

__He opens his mouth, and for a second, she thinks he’s about to say the last words she’ll ever hear. But all he says is,  
“Thank you,” He pauses, biting his lip for a second, before adding, “Look after Steve,”_ _

_Do what I failed to do. Look after that scrawny punk. Don’t hurt him like I did._

__Then he’s gone, out the door: she waits a few seconds before leaving the room, making sure he won’t think she’s following him, in case she causes him to change his mind about hurting her. But when she shakily steps out into the corridor, and looks both ways, all she sees are busy medical personnel; injured patients on gurneys, and worried relatives desperately seeking help._ _

__She doesn’t see the soldier. No one sees him._ _

__She doesn’t tell anyone what happened, that day – she doesn’t doubt what he said about finding her, or that he’d kill her, for divulging any information about him._ _

But when Captain America, coming around from surgery and only half-conscious, asks for a guy called Bucky – _he’s fast, he’s strong, he’s got a metal arm – he’s my friend_ – she puts two and two together, and very quietly tells him,  
“He was here. He told me to look after you. He said he was sorry,”

Steve doesn’t ask for _Bucky_ again, and she doesn’t see him again. He’s a ghost. 

But she keeps her promise to him, all the same. She looks after Steve Rogers in the way that she wishes _Bucky_ had been able to accept being looked after. She does wonder where he is, and what happened to him: but she doesn’t try and find out. She probably won’t want to know the answer. 

__She was just the one to treat Bucky: where he went after that, and what he did next, was up to him._ _


End file.
